


The Thing in the Forest

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I swear I am a normal human being, John is a Saint, M/M, Serial Killer Sherlock, Sherlock is a ghost, Starjohn, acid trip, general weirdness, he is actually a star, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2590457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a restless spirit tied to his grave deep within a forest.  Years of being alone have driven him insane.</p><p>John Watson is a celestial being kicked out of his own realm.  Years of rejection have royally pissed him off.</p><p>And somehow they are perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a test, I don't really do AUs much but here you go. Tell me what you think. Please.

Sherlock Holmes was born to Violet and Silas Holmes, conservative Puritans and close friends with Lieutenant Governor William Stoughton, leader of the city of Salem, sworn in May Sixteenth, 1662. 

The Holmes’s eldest son, Mycroft, was gathered, well prepared, sharp as a tack, and always kept his well-worn copy of the Bible close at hand, his thin lips always poised to spurt a vaguely relevant scrap of Holy Scripture he had tucked away in his mind. 

Sherlock was the only person to see past the chink-less armor Puritan society made so easy to don. Only Sherlock saw where his brother’s faith truly lied, in the trembling hands of early science and politics. And before long, the youngest found redemption in the bubbling fluids and frothing vials as well. 

Mycroft always warned his dear sibling not to speak of this pastime, nor mention his religion, and above all, to not share the brilliant deductions constantly whittling away at his innocence as each stolen secret became progressively more heinous. But the ginger haired diplomat was always there, happily leaning down for the frantic boy to whisper his findings into his ear. 

Unfortunately, each passing year found the boys drifting farther and farther apart. Soon, Mycroft left to find his own standing amongst the political leaders. And by the time Sherlock was fifteen; his intelligence coupled with an arrogant attitude made him a target. Margaret Wennings was the reason he was killed, and Margaret Wennings was a She always threw her immense weight around, blinding people with gaudy rings and tawdry hairpins. The very fact that her family was marginally less popular than the Holmes irritated her to no end, and she was bound and determined to take it out on someone, mainly Sherlock.

The poor boy could stand the constant nagging and nitpicking, but time wore on and Margaret’s antics grew nigh unbearable. Needless to say, a steady stream of deductions delivered in a low monotone voice containing great insight into another person’s personal life during a time in which ‘witchcraft’ was a common issue was not taken all too well.   
The bothersome wench went and cried to her parents about Sherlock’s supposed ‘satanic connections’. Needless to say, Senior Holmes was none to please about his youngests’ behavior. Silas was sure to make the poor boys last days a living hell. 

The trial was held privately, away from the prying eyes of the public. Sherlock was roughly seized from his lumpy cot at midnight and frog-marched straight to the Courthouse, its windows glowing with a soft, ghoulish light. By some cruel twist of fate, the judge of the trial was Mycroft.   
The next week Sherlock was hanged for his crimes.

-oO0Oo-

The grave was nothing much. The only reason he even had one was because a childhood friend by the name of Molly Hooper drove a roughhewn stone into the ground with a log one September afternoon. Only she and on the rare occasion, Mycroft visited, but no flowers or notes were ever left on the cracked soil. For three hundred fifty two years dense pine trees shot up around the pathetic headstone. Each conifer careful to mind their roots, and leave a near perfect circle around the grave. After several unsolved murders occurred near the site, great chain link fences were erected at the edge of the forest, trapping the only resident within his own wooded hell.  
And that resident could only come out at night, which it just so happened to be.

-oO0Oo-

Sherlock whipped one pitch colored tendril around the trunk of the nearest sapling. The smoky appendage tightened its grip, and he pulled himself out of the pit. The moon dimly lit the surrounding area, casting eerie shadows down the angular planes of the spirit’s youthful face. An owl hooted as it caught sight of the neighborhood ghost, large eyes gazing wisely down at him. Sherlock scowled up at the bird of prey and slowly glided across the forest floor the edge of the clearing. Only the very tips of his bare feet grazed the top of each browning blade of grass. As a restless soul, Sherlock had to be careful, living in the woods, surrounded by life and all that would wish to dispel him.   
Hunters, priests, and assorted fearful citizens had attempted to cleanse him of the area countless times over the millennia he had inhabited the quaint little patch. Sherlock couldn’t count the number of times his bones salted and scorched, but fortunately, no one ever seemed to notice the missing scapula which had been carefully hidden in a remote part of the forest. The hidden location of the bone varied throughout the years, since a pair of surprisingly determined hunters continued to return despite its owners numerous attempts to dispel them.

Most of the native villagers were well warned to stay away from the accursed place, but now and then a local crackhead or adrenaline junkie would attempt to stay the in the “Shadow Boy’s” realm. Needless to say, the Shadow Boy made sure to live up to his reputation.   
Sherlock cast his sunken grave a final, wistful, glance and darted into the heart of the forest.  
The trees in the forest were packed on top of one another like sardines in a tin, and the young wraith prided himself on being able to navigate every estranged path way and trail. Not that the pathways and trails were of much use now, not after the area was closed after one to many unsolved murder cases. The vengeful poltergeist eventually regretted each of his killings, but the twisted delight and morbid sense of fulfillment the deaths brought him were too good to resist.

A feeble light flickered off in the distance, a fire.   
“Tourist season, already?” Sherlock chuckled darkly and dashed through the trees towards the campers.  
Two boys and a girl sat huddled on a fallen log.   
All mid-twenties, childhood friends, the girl is in a relationship with the boy on her right, though he is cheating on her with the boy on her left, not native, likely to reside in a more southern region.  
The deductions raced through his mind, warping and altering his perception of the trespassers. He melted into the shadow of the tree behind them, and blew a breath of frigid air against the back of their necks.  
All three of them instinctively shuffled closer to the fire, as if the small circle of wavering light would protect them from the horrors of the dark...

 

It wouldn’t.


	2. Stardust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing this chapter very much, for I LOVE space.

In life, John was never a terribly fascinating or special bloke. Of course, 200,000 years ago not too many people were. But John was smart, more so than his peers, and in a time when there was no language and no way to communicate thought beyond a grunt or squeal, that unnerved people.

Homo sapiens were brand spanking new to little planet Earth at the time of John’s birth, so early in time no one even had designated names (he had chosen his own a few millennia later). With homo erectus and homo neanderthalensis long extinct, nothing would stand in the way of the flourishing species.

Except for the fact that they were cripplingly stupid. 

But John wasn’t. He would grasp at stones with dark tanned hands, rough and calloused from the unforgiving lifestyle. He would bang them against rocks and wood, studying the effect before forgetting and repeating the process again. 

He once sharpened a branch and used it as a rudimentary dagger. His family was not all that please with the creation.  
John was thrown out of his group and left the forage through Africa’s relentless climate alone. Anyone else would have died, but this particular nomad knew what was up.

His genius landed him a seat right between Altar and Canopis. 

-oO0Oo-

Long story short, John became a star. Now he was no Betelgeuse, or even a Unuk, but he was there, hanging in the sky and watching as hundreds of millions of people and galaxies were born and destroyed before his very eyes. The transformation was long and painful, he could feel every fiber of his own mortal being becoming infused with that holy light. His eyes turned a deep sapphire blue, and his skin grew paler, his hair shorter, and better kept. He didn’t feel quite right in this form, he never had. 

John was named Furud. It literally translated into ‘solitary ones’. He did not like it very much at all, too formal. Everyone around acted like they all had sticks up their arses. Which was why he chose John. It was a simple name, common amongst his former people. And so he sat up in the black void and watched everything without the ability to intervene or assist.

It certainly got lonely up there. 

After about seven million years John reached out to a nearby nebula. Her name was Carina, and she was nice.

-oO0Oo-

Now, everyone can imagine the intense boredom that comes with burning at millions of degrees Fahrenheit 24/7 without a break for half an eternity, so we can all picture what it did to John.

He would rant to himself about everything from Oort’s particularly nasty comment toward Kuiper that morning to the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.   
His neighbors were beginning to worry. Even level-headed Cassiopeia (Whom everyone just called Cass) started to freak out. Then he started to question the hierarchy. He would poke and prod at every hole, innocently at first, just trying to understand its makeup. But it steadily got worse.

He publicly insulted Canis Majoris, denounced the credibility of Tarantula, and openly scorned Scuti.   
It had gotten to the point where Hydra had begun to ask after his sanity, which was never a light matter.

She was not pleased with the results of her research. And when Hydra is displeased you had better get light-years out of the way.   
(Now, in order to understand the true and GREAT power of a star, even a minor one, you must know that they are simply pure and raw power, bundled up into a gigantic ball of gas, and hung to dry in the vast emptiness of space, and you must consider the fact that to cross ones path is folly, so as you can imagine this particular situation would not have ended well for John, had he not had a rather tricky trick up his proverbial sleeve.)

In order to escape Hydra’s all-consuming wrath John dove into the fabric of time and space, travelling as far away and as far back is he could.   
He ended up on a weensy blue marble planet orbiting the diminutive star, Sol. Otherwise known as the ‘Celestial Laughingstock’.   
It was the year 2014, centuries after John had been here, and he hadn’t visited it for millennia. 

Travelling backwards or forwards in time is always a useful escape tactic, but it is difficult to return to your original time stream, something that John had no intention of doing any time in the near, or possibly distant, future.

He landed with a BANG and a CRASH mixed in with a few CACAW SCREECH! from the birds. It had been nearly a billion years since John had assumed a corporeal form. It was strange having control of every little appendage.

Though what surprised him the most was his apparel.

Or the lack thereof.

The trees around him were thick at their bases and shot straight up into the sky.   
“Redwood…” John murmured under his breath absently, pulling himself to his feet, only to fall back onto his rear. After spending the better part of a billion years in the form of a flaming ball of gas one forgets how to operate little things like legs. 

Little cuts all along the lengths of his arms stung, and his ribs hurt like hell.

At least I am not dead, John reasoned, healing the wounds without batting a vibrant blue eye. His skin was twenty shades paler than his original form, but still had a healthy tan glow, but Johndoubted glowing was considered healthy in human society.  
“Ah well,” he sighed, “I guess I shall have to be human.”   
-oO0Oo-  
And John tried. Oh how he tried. He tried to conform to society so much, but he just didn’t quite go with everyone else.  
His skin glowed faintly. He smiled a little bit too much. He didn’t blink enough. He always laughed too loud and too long. He never understood anyone’s movie or TV show references. Little things that tended to alienate people.  
Not to mention how he could not account for any of his life before he fell to Earth, had no friends or family, and oftentimes forgot that people did not have multi-dimensional receptors in their brains and would try to communicate with them through telepathy.  
So one day, he left. He left California and hitchhiked across the country living off vending machine snacks and water fountains for weeks until he reached Salem Massachusetts. A none too interesting town filled with none too interesting people, and the only reason he stayed was to get a closer look at the dark, looming forest growing in the center of town, surrounded by a rusted chain link fence covered with city notices and warnings.

John wanted to go in there. 

He wanted to meet its legend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know, Altar, Canopis, Betelgeuse, Unuk, Sol, Furud, Scuti, and Canis Majoris are all real stars. Cassiopeia and Hydra are real constellations. Tarantula and Carina are real nebulae. The Oort cloud is where comets come from, and Kuiper is a star belt.


	3. They Meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet. The title was pretty self explanatory.

Sherlock watched the small droplets of blood drip quietly from a low hanging branch. They each left a different pattern on the stones below, like a sort of macabre snowflake. 

The snow rarely reached the ground during winter in the forest. Even the trees around his grave titled inwards to block out the sun, rain, and dainty ice crystals. He could vaguely remember the snow piling up at the corners of the streets when he was still alive. Neither of Sherlock’s parents would ever allow him to go outside in the weather without escort. Still he would sit by the windows and watch each insignificant flake add up the giant piles atop everyone’s roof.

Too be honest he missed it, the snow. But sentiments such as that would only hinder a resident of the spirit world.

Sherlock glance up into the trees, gazing quietly at the three blank faced twenty-something’s staring blindly back, their eyes milky orbs rolling freely around their heads. He bid the three reeking cadavers goodbye before dashing back to his grave as morning came.

-oO0Oo-

John watched the forest for over an hour. He stood there in front of the fence watching as Sol dragged itself across the clear blue sky.   
John knew little of restless spirits or ghosts, but after interviewing a few of the locals he managed to find out a considerable amount of useful information. No one rightly knew who it actually was, or why he was buried there or anything other than the fact that it was there and supposedly had a knack for killing people.

Not precisely what he had been expecting. Of course, he was talking about a centuries old wraith still haunting its birthplace.   
It was noontime when John actually climbed over the fence, carefully avoiding city notices and warnings clamped around the chain links. As soon as he dropped over to the other side of the fence, John regretted his decision. 

The trees were large and close together, their thick, knotted branches curving inwards blotting out the sun. If it weren’t for the fact that he still glowed, he wouldn’t have been able to see his own hand in front of his face. 

It was cooler too. A slight draft pulled lightly at his hair and left trails of gooseflesh spiraling up his arms. John could feel the animals in the forest going about their daily routine, as if they didn’t live in some kind of evergreen purgatory.

A squirrel scampered down the trunk of a tree and stopped a few inches in front of his ratty trainers.   
“What?” he demanded, staring down at the bushy tailed rodent.

It offered no response, save for a few high pitched chitters before dashing back into the gloom.   
“Well then,” John sighed, taking another tentative step into the gloom, “This is it,” another step, “Here we go,” another step, “All or nothing,” another step, “Ah screw it,” and he sprinted into the forest.

-oO0Oo-

If Sherlock knew anything at all it was his forest. And he knew when something was amiss. 

This wasn’t just an adrenaline junkie stomping around. This thing, he could feel it, burning at the edge of his awareness like fire. The sensation heightened as he could hear footsteps, loud and heavy against the dewy ground.

Sherlock held up his hand and waited for the sound of a person being knocked to the ground by his forcefield. Only nothing came, and the presence drew nearer and nearer until he could see something glowing just at the edge of his periphery.  
“WHO IS IT?” Sherlock yelled with a sadistically singsong lilt, jerking himself around to face the light.  
“Oh, my god…” a quiet voice replied.

Sherlock’s eyes flew to the light a saw a man, no older than eighteen looking dazedly back. He was smiling faintly, and his cheeks were flushed. Golden blond hair that looked as if it had been sewn by Rumpelstiltskin himself swept across a tanned forehead. He blinked a pair of marbled blue eyes and regarded Sherlock with something like awe.

“Not quite,” the little spook came back to himself, plastering his most saccharine smile across his face.  
“Are you the shadow boy?” the glowing man asked. Sherlock’s smirk faltered for a bit.  
“It is entirely possible that I could be him,” he answered slowly.  
“You’re amazing,” the glowing man exclaimed happily. And it was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.

-oO0Oo-

When John pictured evil poltergeist, he did not picture what he saw before him. Most people didn’t. A thin, sixteen, seventeen year old boy with feathery black hair and eyes like sea gems. 

Despite being new to the whole ghost thing, John was pretty sure they weren’t supposed be supermodels. But this thing was gorgeous. Its skin had a grayish tint, and the only clothing it wore was an ebony tunic that ended with a set of equally pitch colored vapor tendrils. 

It nearly melted into the forest, save for the Cheshire cat grin and blue-green eyes.

John was suddenly very reluctant to leave.  
“Why thank you,” it rumbled, sending chills own John’s spine.  
“Don’t mention it,” he squeaked in return looking up at it.  
“I wouldn’t dare.”


	4. Unlikely Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a bit of a chat, which is rudely interrupted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS I'M SOSOSOSOSOSOSOSOSOSO SORRY! SCHOOL HAS BEEN HELL AND MY WIFI WENT OUT AND MY MOTHER MOVED SO IT HAS BEEN VERY BUSY AND I'M SORRY!

Sherlock had never been in this position before.  Not even Mycroft had ever held a conversation with him that dipped below professional.  But this John character, he'd only known him a total of ten minutes and was already regretting the blue-eyed enigma's departure.  There was something decidedly not human about him, whether it be the ridiculously blue eyes or the faint glow dancing along the edges of his skin, Sherlock liked it, he liked the contrast John brought with him to this gloomy little forest.  Yeah, Sherlock could see perfectly well in the dark, but the golden light illuminated everything around them, bringing every small detail into focus.  Mesmerized, the dark haired spirit turned to his companion.

"What are you?"

He cocked his head to the side.

"Could ask you the same, _Shadow Boy_ ," came the reply.  It was a challenge and Sherlock knew, judging by the sharp set of his shoulders and the wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.  He would have to answer first.  Strange.

"I am dead."

"It's not that simple is it though?"

Sherlock let his silence speak for itself.

"Well, I, am a star," he retorted matter-of-factually.

"I suspect it's a bit more complicated than that," Sherlock grinned, floating closer.   He gave a brief chuckle, stepping forwards, in turn.

"Your suspicions would be correct," the star near-whispered.

"Care to elaborate?" Sherlock invited.

"You first," he prodded, sitting down on a nearby log.

The specter sighed, lowering himself to a tree stump across from the other entity, "Hundreds of years ago," _why am I telling him this!?_ "I was born, in Salem, and after a few minor misunderstandings I was put to death for witchcraft."

"What is your true name?"

-oO0Oo-

John looked at the Shadow Boy.  He didn't seem very threatening anymore.  A bit sad, to be honest.  John felt a sudden sympathy swell in his chest as he resisted to urge to reach out and touch the melancholy apparition. 

"Sherlock," he muttered absently, "Sherlock Holmes.  And yours?"

John drew in a breath, "Furud, roughly translating to, 'the solitary ones.  Or John."

"So,  _John_ , how did you come to be, a star?" Sherlock inquired, leaning forwards.

"Smarter than my peers, passed 'star test' with flying colors."

"I sincerely doubt that is all to the story," he countered with a wicked grin.

"And I doubt 'minor misunderstandings' would ever lead to an impromptu execution," John fired back, returning Sherlock's smile.

"Touche," was all the phantom could manage before a harsh voice ripped through the dark trees.

"HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"

Sherlock visibly flinched at the sight of the police officer.

"Oh, damn," he murmured to himself, "Last one was just last night..."

"Sherlock?  What is he going to do? Neither of us are huma-"

"QUIT TALKING!" the officer barked.

"Come with me, if convenient," Sherlock offered his hand.  John reached for it, and the moment their flesh touched, Sherlock was off, dragging him through the forest at an impossible speed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit short.


	5. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a friendly chat about nothing. Bit of a precursor to the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES IT IS SHORT AND YES I AM SORRY!
> 
> SUPER HUGE AND AMAZING THANKS TO ANYONE STILL READING! IT TAKES A LOT TO GET THROUGH THIS!

Sherlock was ecstatic, the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through his veins (metaphorically speaking of course), it was something he hadn’t felt for a while, probably since he was alive. But, oh, did he feel alive just then. John, however, was less excited about the precious moment, judging from the disgruntled ‘oomf’s and irritated ‘gah’s. The graceless thumping of police footsteps grew farther and farther away until the ominous sounds completely disappeared into the quiet of the forest. Only then did Sherlock relinquish his death grip on John’s hand, stepping away and allowing the rumpled star a moment to gather himself.

“A bit,” he gasped, “more warning wouldn’t go amiss Sherlock.”

“Apologies, I merely did not wish for the citizens to find us,” the spirit explained, casting a wary glance over his shoulder, “Last time that happened there were petitions to destroy the forest.”

“Why would that matter?” John queried, picking a stray twig from his hair,” Couldn’t you just move?”

Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug, not quite ready to reveal the secret to his continued existence. John narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but dropped the subject.

“So...do you really kill people?”

“Only when they infringe upon my territory, which it is technically illegal to enter,” came the casual reply, as if brutal murder was an everyday occurrence for fell creatures. John’s eyes bugged out of there sockets and he took a few hesitant steps backwards.

“Are you going to kill me as well?” the star asked, bringing his arms into a defensive position. Sherlock snorted, as if the notion itself was insanity to even consider.

“I sincerely doubt that I have the power the kill a celestial being such as yourself, as I am a simple soul, trapped in this plane of existence by a nasty vendetta towards public jurisdiction.”

“Oh,” John cocked his head to the side and laid a gentle hand on the simple soul’s shoulder, “I dunno’ much about public jurisdiction, but they sound pretty awful, I guess.”

-oO0Oo-

Sherlock felt…weird. It wasn’t unpleasant, but, weird. It was as if someone had blended smoke with water, roiling, not quite solid, but thick and palpable. John could feel every small movement Sherlock made through the small contact on his shoulder. It was a surreal experience, and the fallen star found himself desiring more.

“My own brother sentenced me to hanging…” the phantom sighed, leaning into the touch, “He looked me in the eye as he banged that damned gavel on his seat… and I wonder if he ever, if he ever regretted it…”

“He was your brother,” John whispered back, “Of course he regretted it. That’s what brothers are for.”

“You had siblings then?”

“I don’t know, unless you count Eridanus, she was like a sister to me. We talked sometimes when things got lonely up there.”

The sun started to peek over the horizon, red-orange light spilling through the dense trees.

“I’m sorry John, but I have to go now, the undead don’t fare well in the light,” Sherlock sprang to his, er, tentacles?

“Oh, well I guess I will have to come back tonight,” John grinned mischievously.

“You would come back?” he exclaimed quietly, the corners of his mouth twisting into a smile.

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s not as if I have anything better to do!” and John, in a brief moment of either bravery or stupidity, pecked a quick kiss the cheek of the person he had only met an hour earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Critiques oh so very welcome.


End file.
